


A Chatty Client

by Zakle



Category: Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27533824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zakle/pseuds/Zakle
Summary: Oliver could feel his eye twitch. "Oh my God," he finally said, breaking his wife's rule of silence. He pulled roughly on his scalpel, blood splattering on his shoes. "Could you quit telling dad jokes while I repossess your kneecaps?”Where the McKnights learn not everyone is terrified of Repos, and it makes them nervous.
Relationships: Oliver McKnight/Sharla McKnight
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1
Collections: Quote Prompt Memes





	A Chatty Client

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkBalance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBalance/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [DarkBalance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBalance/pseuds/DarkBalance) in the [quoteonlyprompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/quoteonlyprompts) collection. 



**A Chatty Client**

* * *

Oliver McKnight preferred music over the complete silence his wife, Sharla, demanded. But one must make compromises in a marriage, especially when one worked with them as closely as they did. Alone, separately, they did what they liked, how they liked. This job was supposed to be his.

"Let's go, dear." His eyebrows raised; Sharla was in uniform. 

"Darling?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh," she paused in the door, "Did I forget to tell you?"

His face was apparently enough of an answer because she continued, voice high and way too pleasant to be real, "It's been upped to a two person job."

"Damn."

She snorted, obviously pleased from her twitching lips. His anger drained and fizzled. With a shake of his head, he pushed past her and into their operating room, the man in question having already been taken and waiting for repossession. Automatically Oliver made his way to his cabinet of chemicals. He was holding one of his own inventions—the sort that'd bring down even the most stubborn elephant—when he heard a dainty cough behind him.

Sharla crossed her arms. "No. We do this my way, as usual."

" _Your_ way involves more clean up, _mine_ is much cleaner." Contrary to his tone, though, he gently put the bottle back in place. _Marriage is built of compromises,_ he reminded himself with a soft sigh.

His new shoes were going to be ruined. Really shouldn't have worn them today. Maybe he could still slip them off? As he mused the pros and cons of operating barefoot, he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands.

The telltale sound of metal hitting metal told him his wife was setting out their tools of the trade. The clock had started; time for silence.

"Ooh, that reminds me of something. What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth Hurt-y."

"Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the idiot's house. Knock knock. Who's there? The chicken. Speaking of chickens. Why do chicken coops only have two doors? Because if they had four, they would be chicken sedans!

"Two peanuts were walking down the street. One was a salted. How do you make holy water? You boil the hell out of it."

Oliver could feel his eye twitch. This damn motormouth. What the hell was wrong with him? Did Oliver use so much chloroform it turned him into this joking creature? No, ignore it, just focus on clean cuts. Focus. _Focus._ With a stiff, tensed hand he held the scalpel against the man's leg, pulling as blood beaded alongside the thin line mixing with the brown numbing liquid he drabbed around the site. A groan somewhere above—Sharla's doing, he thought, as she cut alongside the man's hip—briefly broke through the never ending stream of words. His shoulder's slumped, a lump in his throat. Anything, even silence, even screams, were better than whatever they just suffered through, but it couldn't stop his regret at having a part in this.

A sharp intake of breath was their only warning. And then the man was right back at it, sputtering with pained hisses as Sharla cut further up his body. Hip to collarbone, her target being simply to scar as a visual reminder to pay on time next time. 

Oliver didn't know how much more he could take of this. He wondered if his wife felt the same; from the increasingly loud stomping and clattering of spent tools, he felt it was safe to assume she couldn't either.

"Oh my God," he finally said, breaking his wife's rule of silence. He pulled roughly on his scalpel, blood splattering on his shoes. "Could you quit telling dad jokes while I repossess your kneecaps?”

"Nah. What's the fun in that?"

This little—

"Fun," Sharla hissed in between a clenched jaw, "This isn't meant to be fun. Hell, this isn't some comedy house or circus!"

Oliver could practically _feel_ the smile in the man's voice. "Could've fooled me, sweetheart. This place looks like a hall of mirrors." Something shattering made both men jump, the forced client letting out a yelp. Oliver glanced down in alarm; his hand had veered off course violently down the shin. Cursing, he slapped his other hand over the bleeding, and cringed at the second yelp it brought.

As much as he already hated this guy, he didn't have the heart to cause pain. That's why he only ever took nonlethal jobs. His wife took the ones that were and completed them with something akin to joy.

That something, thankfully, never made its way to the main house, always dying on the operating table before Sharla—the real Sharla—returned. 

"Shit," he cursed again, reaching behind him blindly to grab a rag, hoping it was clean enough. He took his hand away, his glove slightly sticking, and replaced it with the cloth.

"No biggie, Repo Daddy," the man grunted. He swung his other leg playfully over the side.

Oliver froze, Sharla choked.

As normal as Oliver could be, he pressed against the wound. "Let's just get this finished!" He could feel his face flushing from under his face covering, only growing when the man started laughing. It grew hotter as Sharla joined.

Eventually, slowly, everything settled into near silence. Even the man had stopped talking. With a renewed, though still embarrassed, calm, he wrapped the man's shin, dabbed more numbing agent on the knee, and resumed with the surgery.

He ignored his wife's chuckling.


End file.
